My mother did not hesitate. “I have God’s law,” she said. “I have compassion, mercy, and justice. And I too know what is expected of a ruler. I, after all, was raised in a palace, not in an Armenian goatherd’s tent.” Goatherd’s tent? I thought in confusion. Grandmother was the daughter of a goatherd? And Armenian? Surely they were barbarians, like the Turks? But I had little time to wonder at what my mother had said.
“Enough,” said my grandmother. “Decide, Anna.”
I looked from one to the other. My mother’s idea of a gentle rule appealed to me. But what good had it done her family? An emperor deposed and exiled in his old age, a city destroyed, churches looted. And if my father was ruling under his mother’s advice, should I not follow his example and use her as my teacher too? Surely he, of all people, knew which of them was better at teaching me. My father was a glorious emperor. The Turks were being beaten back farther from our borders every day, so we were told. My father had recently established the largest leper hospital in the world, where ill people were taken care of and given the last rites as they died. New churches with glorious paintings and mosaics in them were rising all over the empire. Surely, if he had to tell a few lies to accomplish all this, if he had to disappoint a few allies, it made for more peace and stability in the long run. Not to mention a stronger hold on the throne.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” I said. “I will need my grandmother to help me rule when I become empress.”
“What makes you think she will still be alive?” my mother broke in, tears starting from her eyes.
I hadn’t thought of that. My grandmother seemed ageless.
“Well, if she isn’t, I will need all the more time to learn from her now,” I said. “I will happily learn from you, too …” I said desperately as she turned to leave. “Mother,” I pleaded, “I want to learn your lessons too!” But she had already disappeared through the door. For a moment I thought of following her, but before I could move, my grandmother’s voice stopped me. It was cold, but the note of triumph was unmistakable.
“Now I will tell you about the tactics used by the Normans,” she said. I turned and sat down wearily. Her voice went on and on, but I didn’t hear a word. Instead, I kept picturing the city of Constantinople in flames, my father in sackcloth, my mother humiliated. But the image of the old Ducas king, whom my father had replaced, reduced to the status of a common man, rose in my mind. I saw him, once the proud leader of millions, riding in a common coach, being borne away to a monastery to live out his life in dreary exile. My stomach churned at the thought. Anything but that, I said to myself, and with an effort drew my attention back to the present.
CHAPTER SEVEN
y father was coming home. Messengers had arrived on exhausted horses to tell us that the war had been a success and the Turks were for the moment not a problem. But my father did not come with them, and although my mother didn’t say so, I knew she was worried at the delay. I, on the other hand, prided myself on my patience. After all, I had waited to be born until he returned from war, hadn’t I? I knew he was safe and would be back soon.
Besides, I was too busy to worry. As an eleven-year-old, I was nearly a woman. The woman is the head of the household, and when I was empress, I would have an enormous household to supervise. I would have to make sure there was food for everyone in all the palaces in the imperial compound. I would need to see to it that new servants were properly trained, that livestock was kept in good order, that everyone was properly clothed, and that the children received their education. The health of my family would be in my hands, and although the imperial family had the best physicians in the empire, final responsibility for everyone’s health would be mine. I enjoyed medical studies the most, and my cousins soon learned to flee from me when they saw me approaching with bandages, or the box of herbs used to mix up remedies.
And when my husband was out of the city (as Constantine would often be), I would also be in charge of defense of the palace against invaders. I secretly hoped that would happen. I knew I would be good at battle.
Lessons continued with Simon. I think my mother must have spoken to him about her encounter with my grandmother, for suddenly he was dwelling longer than usual on the philosophers and church fathers who said that maintaining one’s word is the only way to govern fitly. He also had us read and memorize gruesome stories of war. My favorite book was the Iliad, and one day Simon set me a reading assignment from the part where Priam, the king of Troy, went to beg the Greeks for the body of his beloved son, Hector. Hector, with his golden helmet and athletic prowess, reminded me of Constantine, and tears stung my eyes each time I read of his death. Please let Constantine be safe, I prayed silently each time we came to that part.
The Greek Achilles, blinded by his fury over the death of his best friend, Patroclus, killed by Hector, had slain the Trojan hero and mutilated his body by dragging it behind his chariot. I was standing on the table with my back to the doorway, declaiming as Simon had taught me, and had just reached the part where Hector’s father pleads for his son’s body when I saw Simon’s eyes drop and his hands cross submissively on his round stomach. This usually meant that my grandmother had come to take me for private study, so I turned to the door, ready to go, when I saw that instead of her black columnar figure, my mother was standing there, robed in red.
She approached. “And what does this story teach us, children?” she asked. No one spoke, so she answered for us. “Achilles refused to obey the laws of his gods and of man, and he was himself killed. Even in war,” she said, emphasizing the last word and looking me in the face, “even in war, there are rules to be followed. A leader must lead honorably.”
The others looked bored. What had this to do with them? And the battles in the Iliad were glorious to read, despite the talk of rules and leading honorably. My mother looked at me meaningfully once more, then left the room. We returned to our studies, but the episode had lost its fascination for me.
In my rare free time, I returned to some of my childish games. My brain was weary, and as Constantine was with my father he would never know if I helped amuse my sister Maria by playing with her dolls. One day we had avoided the midday sun by going into the Balchernae Palace’s inner courtyard. This was our favorite place, since there we were outdoors but still enclosed in the safe walls of the palace.
We were pretending that our dolls were soldiers. Maria was then only eight, so she had to obey me when I told her that her dolls were the barbarians and mine were the Greeks. Remembering my medical lessons, I had torn up tiny scraps of linen to make bandages, and crushed the small grass seeds around us to make medicines for my wounded heroes. My troops were massacring Maria’s in vast hordes, and she wanted to provide them with Christian burial. I told her that infidels weren’t Christians, but she said, “Mine are,” and refused to continue the game until they were properly buried. I gave in and told her that we needed something. Before she could ask what it was, I slipped into the chapel that was near our play area, and took the heavy silver chalice Father Agathos used for the sacramental wine.
Maria’s eyes widened when she saw it. “Put it back, Anna!” she said. “What if Mother were to see?”
I knew that my punishment would be swift and sure if we were found out—probably I would have to kneel on the bare stone floor of the church for half a day, saying prayers in penance. My knees ached at the thought. But the added danger just made the chalice more special to me.
“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “I’ll tell her it was my idea. You won’t get in any trouble.”
I was administering the last rites to the captain of Maria’s forces when a sudden rustle of silk told me that our mother was coming through the cloth hanging on the doorway. I hastily picked up the chalice to stuff it in the pouch hanging at my waist. To my horror, it didn’t fit, so I whipped my hand behind me and stood with my heart thumping and my head properly bowed, awaiting her.
I looked upward under my eyelashes at my mother. She was accompanied
by a barefoot girl somewhat taller than I, whom I had never seen before. The girl was dressed in the garb of a household servant. When my mother drew near, she said, “You may approach, Princesses.” We walked to her, heads still down, and kissed her hand. I hoped she would not notice that my left hand was behind my back. I then raised my head and looked at her companion.
A round brown face looked back at me. The muddy brown eyes were unattractive, although they shone with an intelligence that disconcerted me. The girl had long, curly hair that would have benefited from a good brushing. She must be new, I thought, and doesn’t know how to keep herself like an imperial slave. She seemed to be about my age, although with barbarians it is often hard to tell. We looked at each other in silence.
“This is your new maid,” my mother said. “She is my gift to you.”
The maid kept looking at me. The impertinence of her direct gaze made me want to slap her, but I did not like to do so in front of my mother, who believed in treating slaves like people. I wish Grandmother were here, I thought. She would soon have her spirit broken the way it should be.
“She seems untrained,” I answered, “but I think I can make her useful.”
“She is indeed, as you say, untrained,” my mother answered. “You have started learning your new duties. It seemed wise to me to have the two of you learn together. That way you can teach each other.”
I felt my cheeks flame hot. A slave teach me! I knew what my grandmother would say if she heard such a thing: “A Comnenus to be taught by a slave, indeed! Only a Ducas would find such a thing suitable.”
“How could she help me, Mother?” I asked, my voice rising high in protest.
“You are no longer a child, Anna,” she said gently. “You will find that you will need someone trustworthy, who is not involved in politics, in whom you can confide. If this girl proves worthy of your trust, perhaps she will be that one. She has no stake in what our families do. Besides, you need to learn how to train a maid. You will soon ally the Comnenus and Ducas families and will have a large staff to handle.”
She looked me full in the face, smiling. I knew she was proud of the blood of her Ducas family, which had been noble while most of my father’s family—I was forced to admit—were merely wealthy landowners.
“Don’t play too long in the heat,” my mother said. “Give me a kiss before I return to my chamber.”
My face felt hot as I realized the impossibility of embracing my mother as she expected. My new maid was watching me, her head on one side, and she suddenly approached me.
“Your Grace has gotten dirty,” she said with a thick accent. “You don’t want to soil your mother’s lovely robe.” She brushed off the dust on my skirt as she walked around me, and I felt her lightly remove the chalice from my hand. She returned to her original place, her hand hidden in the folds of her dress. As I kissed my mother’s cheek, I saw the girl slip the chalice into her pocket, which being a servant’s was much larger than the dainty pouch I wore at my waist.
Suddenly I jumped at a noise from outside the palace. Heralds were shouting, trumpets were blaring. It didn’t sound like an attack, but still Maria and I looked at my mother for reassurance. She was staring in the same direction I was, her brow furrowed, her hand to her throat.
“Go inside, Princesses,” she said. She hastened back through the door.
The three of us stood still, heads bowed, hands properly clasped, until we heard the cloth hanging swing shut. Then I turned to the girl. There was a twinkle in her eye and I could tell that she was trying to repress a grin. I pretended not to notice it.
“Why did you do that?” I asked. She shrugged. “How did you know I was hiding that chalice?” I persisted.
“You looked the way my little sister did when she kept a kitten that my father had told her to take to the barn,” she answered. “Only, of course, your clothes are much more elegant.”
She was getting too familiar, although she had not actually said anything offensive.
“What is your name?” I asked her.
“Your mother tells me that my name is now Sophia,” she answered.
“Whose household did you serve before you came here?”
Finally, I had managed to remove the smile from her face, although I had no idea how I had done it. I was pleased to see that her expression was properly submissive now. I leaned closer to look at her. Her lips were clamped tight together and her cheeks were red. They looked hot.
At last she answered, “I did not serve in a household. I lived with my mother and father and brothers and little sister in a village far from Constantinople.”
“Oh-ho,” I said. “Now I see. You’re a Turk!”
She did not say anything, which was answer enough. Turks were constantly trying to invade the empire. They were always quickly subdued by the imperial forces, and any survivors of the battles were of course enslaved.
“Where is your little sister now, and the rest of your family?”
No answer. Then, “Dead. Or sold into slavery, like me,” she said. “Most of my village was killed. The man I was to marry—I think I saw him being led off the day I was found in the woods. But I don’t know about anyone else.”
I tried to picture Constantine Ducas being led off in chains, but couldn’t succeed in seeing his proud form bent in submission. An image of Hector’s mutilated body returned to me once more, and I shuddered.
CHAPTER EIGHT
he maid was still staring at me with curious brown eyes. “What is it?” I asked impatiently.
“Are you really a princess?” she asked.
“I am,” I answered, trying to hide my pride at her obvious awe. “I am the daughter of Emperor Alexius Comnenus, who conquered the empire when he was only twenty-four. And when I am older, in a year or two, I will marry Constantine Ducas, a relative of the emperor my father deposed. I haven’t yet decided whether I will let him be emperor or not. In either case, I will then be empress.”
“I too am betrothed,” broke in the girl eagerly. “I am to marry the son of our neighbor, Malik. He is older than I, but very kind, and when he finds me, we will wed, and go live with his brother in the mountains—”
“What do I care about your peasant alliances?” I burst out, astonished that she was addressing me so familiarly. “Do you dare compare this farmer’s son to Constantine Ducas? Do you not know that one day I will be ruling the entire empire while you dream of living with your brother-in-law? And what makes you think you will be released from your servitude to marry?”
Her face clouded over, but she wore a resolute expression. “I just know it will happen,” she said. “And how do you know that someday you will rule all these lands? Other kings have had their thrones taken away from them, or so I hear. And if you do rule, how will you know what to do?”
Despite my grandmother’s reassurances, I still felt uneasy at the thought of governing the vast Byzantine Empire. But I hid my feelings and answered as casually as I could, “I have already learned much about statesmanship, and will have many advisors to help me. My grandmother, Anna Dalassena, is so trusted by my father that when he is away she rules in his place. And she will help me.”
“How can someone help the empress?” asked the girl.
“Why—she will tell me what to do. And I will do it,” I said. It seemed obvious.
“Then won’t she really be the empress, and not you?” persisted Sophia.
I did not like the direction this conversation was taking. Who was this infidel, this slave, this representative of a conquered race, to be questioning me? And what did she mean by that question? Surely if I were sitting on the throne and if it were up to me to follow or not to follow the advice given me, I would still be the ruler. My grandmother would just be my advisor, as she was for my father. My mother, I had convinced myself, was wrong. My father made up his own mind, and he merely took his mother’s advice because it made the most sense. I would do the same, and if I didn’t like what she said, I would do something els
e.
“Enough chatter,” I said. “Leave now, and take my sister with you.”
“Where do you want me to put this?” Sophia said, indicating her pocket. I had forgotten the chalice. I made up my mind to deal with it as quickly as possible to avoid detection.
“I’ll take it,” I said. “You’re not allowed to go where it belongs.”
She handed me the chalice, then stood waiting for further orders.
“You are dismissed,” I said. “Take Maria to our chamber. And girl—you are to call me Your Majesty, not Your Grace.”
Sophia nodded as if this did not concern her greatly, and reached down to Maria. Before I could stop her, Maria had slipped her small white hand into the thin brown one and went trotting off toward the women’s side of the palace. It was not strictly proper for the two of them to be touching, but Maria was still child enough that I supposed it was all right. More important at this moment was my mission of returning the chalice to its proper place in the chapel.
I walked quickly through the corridor and slipped through the chapel’s open door. I stood still for a moment, allowing my eyes to get accustomed to the darkness, resting my hand on the cold stone. It was a short run down the aisle to put the chalice back in its case. But before I could take even one step, I heard angry voices coming from the area near the altar, exactly where I had to go myself. Panicked but suddenly curious, I slipped silently behind a tapestry and listened, trying not to sneeze as the dusty fabric pressed against my face. I wanted to see who it was that dared violate the sanctity of the chapel.
At first I could make out only enough to recognize the voices. It was my mother and—could it be?—my father! I almost leaped out from my hiding place until I remembered the chalice I held. At all costs, I wanted to avoid being punished for having borrowed it. So despite my eagerness to see him again, I stayed where I was, and listened.
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